


the silent sea

by low_fi



Series: the lighthouse [3]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: (it's one scene), Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe, Do Not Archive (The Magnus Archives), Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Established Relationship, GNC Elias Bouchard, Gaslighting, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Minor Character Death, Mutual Pining, Secret Relationship, Slow Burn, bad things happen to Rosie, canon typical elias awfulness, canon typical peter awfulness, lighthouse AU (not the movie) - continuation, yes i'm still stewing in my niche
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-17
Updated: 2021-01-29
Packaged: 2021-03-15 20:53:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28819557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/low_fi/pseuds/low_fi
Summary: In the final installment of this series, Elias commits atrocities in the name of egoism (and love).
Relationships: Elias Bouchard/Peter Lukas
Series: the lighthouse [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1947358
Comments: 6
Kudos: 29





	1. I

**Author's Note:**

> If you havent read the first two installments of this series, then you can go ahead and do that via the link above. I mean, you don't have to. But it'll probably help.   
> [spoilers] fair warning: this isn't a pleasant story. bad things happen to good people (including Rosie. if that'll upset you, do NOT read this). evil bastards are as evil as ever. this particular installment is about villains before it's about love or longing, and i have been wrestling with myself about that. check the tags. tw for emotional abuse, gaslighting, general cruelty, suicide ideation, suicide themes, alcohol, and canon typical tma stuff. if i forgot anything, tell me, i will tag it.  
> my fics contain mature and dark themes, and are generally meant for adults. thank you.

Things are going well for Elias. 

As far as 'well' can mean 'normally', that is. Or 'poorly'. Either. It wouldn't matter in any case, because he has his work, an apartment near the studio, and enough money to up and disappear should the need arise. He is what Administration might call a 'loose cannon', were he not significantly more dangerous and surprisingly well-behaved compared to the other cannons. He is the kind of cannon you want rattling about, even if you risk some disruption when said cannon finds itself barreling along the south coast to take up some micro-job in _entertainment_ , of all things. 

If you really get down to it - gaze up the ladder, fill in form after form until you reach the big one, the head of Administration, the one who sees all and reads all, and like the filing clerk, does not comprehend - you will find no-one. The desk stands empty. Elias has seen it. Elias has sat at that desk, just to see if something would smite him for his hubris. It didn't. 

The air at his studio feels stale. There is dust hanging under the ceilings, tiny clutters suspended under old lamps. He gets the same questions every week, but his listeners don't care if they're repeating after someone else. People always want to be heard. 

Within the first few days after the debacle, he urges them to write him letters instead of calling. Questions. Pleas. Stories. Jonah, Jonah, Jonah. A day later, he entirely forbids calls, and doesn't even let Rosie pick up to check if it's something important. The last thing he wants is her big doe eyes looking up at him sadly and she says, 'Jonah, it's him…'

Just for the first month, he tells himself. Just the first two. 

The madness doesn't end there. Secretly, he still hopes one of those letters will have familiar handwriting scrawled upon the envelope. He knows it won't, of course he knows, but something has twisted in him since Peter called his show. He is genuinely beginning to think it's some sort of Distortion sabotage. 

But he hadn't expected it then, either. He hadn't expected Peter to reach out, and he had. It had taken him so utterly by surprise that he can't help the panicked flutter of his heart at every new letter, and he knows it's not the Spiral playing tricks. It's too childish. Too ridiculous. 

His show becomes him just talking to himself for a few hours. His contact with his audience takes a nosedive. He catches Rosie watching him judgmentally when he leaves his studio at night.

"What kept you?" she asks, as the grandfather clock in the corridor silently strikes one, the chimes taken out. He stops in the doorway to her office. "You finished half an hour later than usual." 

"Weren't you listening?" he snaps, sharper than he meant to, as he shrugs on his coat and adjusts the collar.

She just looks at him with those round, worried eyes, and hate flares up in him like an old scar. He wants to show her that she has far more pressing issues than him. He doesn't know them yet, but he will--oh, he will. She is going to realise just how much pain she has to focus on, all locked away inside her. Everyone does. 

As he's quietly seething, Rosie gets up and puts on her own coat - a dusty pink, horribly puffy thing, too many seasons out of date. He almost scoffs, but if she leaves this job, he's going to have to find someone else to handle his taxes (and all his other paperwork), and he is not dealing with that, not so late into the year.

"If you're not going to listen, you might as well start going home early. No use having you sit there and... nod off,” he says. 

"Shouldn't leave until the boss leaves," she flashes a short, pained smile as she takes up her umbrella. 

He notices she had all those things at the ready, as if preparing to sprint off with them - her scarf, another shade of pink, slung over her desk - but her movements now are leisurely, almost reluctant. 

"Don't you have a train to get to?" he cocks an eyebrow. 

The city train is an ancient, clattering thing, but runs pretty late into the night, if he remembers correctly. His apartment is too close to bother. 

Rose scoops up a pair of pink mittens and pulls them on, her face half-hidden in her scarf. "I missed it." 

He pauses. 

"Missed it?" 

"Yes, Jonah, I missed it," she sighs, and brushes past him with her umbrella clasped tightly in her mitten. 

"Well, come, now..." he begins to walk quickly after her, doing up his coat. It's quite thin for this weather, but elegant, so he doesn't mind. He takes the scarf from over the bend of his arm and puts it around his neck as he catches up with her outside. 

"Hold on," he mutters, turning back for a moment to lock the front door. The building powers down with it, lights flickering out in the windows. 

He turns to Rosie again, who's lingering on the doorstep, struggling to open her umbrella. 

It's raining. The street is pitch black, lit only by yellow-hued gaslight along one side, the glow from the lanterns catching the drizzle. A cold wind rushes down the street. Rosie's cheeks and nose are turning red. 

Elias tucks the key in his pocket. "Is your apartment far?"

She shakes her head, but looks guilty. "No, just a half hour or so..." 

Oh, perfect. 

"I believe a gentleman would offer to walk the lady home?" he asks, raising his eyebrows. 

Rosie gives a tight little smile.

"Thank you, but I'll be fine." 

"A beautiful young woman like you, walking the streets alone at this hour? I think not," he scoops the umbrella clean out of her hand and gallantly offers his elbow. 

He is not at all blind to the self-deprecating discomfort that passes over her face, but whether it's the comment about her age - she has to be in her thirties - or something else, he couldn't say. Either way, it's devilishly satisfying; she almost makes it too easy. 

"I really don't think this is appropriate," she whispers under her breath, but then - as if to counter herself - puts her hands around his elbow and ducks under the umbrella. 

"It's a shame, really," he says, glancing down at her, "Walking at night can be so calming." 

Vapour flows from their mouths in great white puffs. They begin to walk, taking a second to fall into step. Rosie's face is turned away. 

"Jonah," she says after a moment, "What happened to that man of yours?"

Elias decides to give her one chance. "What man," he says flatly. 

"You know, the one on the phone," she replies, staring at the cobblestones stretching before them, "The one who called, and..." 

No, this is not how this was supposed to go. He was supposed to get her to talk. Show him something she would later regret, mention a sister, a lover… something that would _hurt_. He should have done this ahead of time, really, but when he hired her... he hadn't cared. 

He'd been distracted. 

"Rosie," he puffs an exasperated breath, "Please. You have to know how embarrassing that little stunt was for me. The last thing I want to do is talk about it."

She gives him a look. "Oh. I apologize."

His tongue burns. He discreetly mouths a curse. "It... didn't work out, so to speak." 

She hums, relaxing again, her warm hand curling tighter around his arm. "Your listeners dream about confessions like that," she says, "I'd guess most of them think it was staged." 

"I wish it had been," he scoffs, "I wish this entire debacle had been a publicity stunt." 

The hair on the back of his neck stands on end. He feels her eyes on the side of his face.

"I didn't know you even..." she begins, then trails off. 

Annoyance prickles in his cheeks. He throws her a glare, and she quickly finishes:

"That you date." 

"I don't," he corrects, "Peter was a friend." 

The doubt is apparent on her face.

"The things he said didn't sound platonic."

His chest cinches down on his heart like a vice.

"Yes, well, Peter hasn't had many meaningful connections in his life. It's a bit sad, really," he smiles, all poison, but even he can hear the deceit in his voice, "It must be awful to miss someone so much it tears you apart." 

Rosie says nothing. 

He scours his mind for an idea. A thought. And, then--of course. 

"It occurs to me I don't know if you're seeing anyone," he says, his tone freshly polite and engaging as he looks at her, "Hmm?"

She crumbles under his gaze. 

"I have a boyfriend." 

"Really?" he lets himself sound just a bit disbelieving, just to plant that seed of insecurity, "What's his name? You've never mentioned him before." 

"Drew. He's a security guard." 

"Been together long?" 

"I'm not on your show, Jonah," she mumbles. 

"I'm just making friendly conversation." 

She gives him a look that's outright distressed now. 

"A couple months. Almost a year." 

"Does he have a drawer?" 

"Yes." 

"Do you?" 

Her brow twitches slightly, forming a worried wrinkle. Ah. 

"No, but it's because he'd got a small cabinet," she says, "There's no room." 

"Ah, of course." He shrugs, lying to her face. Or, not lying. Who knows, maybe the man does have a tiny cabinet, point is--he makes sure to sound like he's lying for her benefit. 

"So since things didn't work out with Peter..." she says thoughtfully, and opens her mouth to continue, but he cuts her off. 

"I have no interest in any more romance." 

Her mouth quirks. "I thought you said he was a friend." 

Elias is going to _hurt_ her. Someday. This is the damn crux of the issue; the fact that when Peter ribbed him about something, he felt such an overwhelming warmth he barely noticed the annoyance. When Rosie tries it, his blood boils.

"Jonah?" her grip on his elbow tightens, and he realises he's fallen silent, "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have pried." 

"There's nothing to be sorry about," he replies automatically, quickly wiping at his nose. 

Rosie slumps a bit into his shoulder, taking his arm further into her own until they're fully looped. Their sides are pressed together. 

"You're holding it together really well," she says softly, "I had no idea you cared at all, and it's been, if I had to guess, er... a couple weeks?" 

"I don't. It's just late. And I'm... old."

"Not that old," she allows jokingly, but she has no idea.

The rain picks up - or maybe they've wandered under a heavier cloud. Either way, conversation quickly becomes impossible as rain drums against the umbrella, water pouring off the edges. They walk the last few streets in silence, until they reach the brownstone Elias recognises as Rosie's home. He stops. 

"Hang on," she blinks in surprise, "I never told you where I live." 

"I remembered seeing it on your file," he lies and watches as she hops under the small bit of cover above the front door.

He goes to fold the umbrella, but frowns when he realises the rain hasn't died down in the slightest. Rosie clearly notices, too, because her hurried glance at the sky - and then at her watch - betrays her intentions before she even says the words.

"Do you want to come in?" she asks like she doesn't quite believe she's doing it, "I know it's late, but you could... wait out the worst of it." 

He hesitates. He really does.

"No, thank you, Rosie," he pulls in a breath. "I'll just borrow this, if you don't mind," he bobs the hand holding the umbrella, "And I'll be off." 

"Of course," she begins to fumble for her keys, "Thank you for walking me home. Very... very kind of you." 

She shoots him a brief glance that fully betrays the extent of her disbelief - and turns around. 

"Any time," he nods, "Goodnight."

"Goodnight, Mr Bouchard," she replies quickly and slips through the front door, glancing back out before she locks it. 

Elias stands on the doorstep for a moment, thinking, then walks away. 

*

The first time, he admits he was a little lax with his promise. He had checked in on the light, occasionally glanced through a seagull's eye to see his silhouette on the gallery. He doesn't pretend he's not self-indulgent, or cruel, or any of the other things that used to scare him; but at the same time, it's really in his own best interest to pull himself together and focus on his work. 

But every envelope, every damn one. Every day. He's not broken up, just annoyed. Inconvenienced. 

Angry. 

He breaks.

He only takes a peek. It's his nature, and it won't do any harm, after all; not to Peter, anyway, and remaining undetected is key. He finds a seagull, suspended on the breeze coming from the horizon, wings outstretched and the sea a deep indigo beneath it. He looks. 

The light is out. 

At first, he thinks he might be seeing things. It's the first time he's felt such a doubt in two centuries, and yet it's there--he looks, but he doesn't believe his eyes.

The seagull must be... ill. Or, perhaps, he got the place wrong. He focuses harder, allowing his eye to venture forth, encompass the whole lighthouse. His vision warps around, revealing more angles, a truer, fuller image.

With suddenly-cold hands, he grasps his phone and dials a number, still keeping one eye on the dark, dead lighthouse. His pulse hammers in his throat. 

"The Office, front desk, how can I help you?" a bored female voice asks. 

He takes a breath, gets a grip. "This is Elias Bouchard speaking. Put me through to Jonathan Sims, please." 

"Right away, Mr Bouchard, give me a quick second." Low buzz. Music. 

He grits his teeth. She did not just put him on hold. 

"Hello?" a vaguely surprised voice asks on the other end. 

"Jon, good..." he glances at the clock, "Evening. So sorry to bother you out of the blue, but have you checked in on Peter Lu--"

"Oh, finally," Jon interrupts him, as if freshly reminded of some old annoyance, "Do you have any idea how many times we tried to reach you? How hard is it to answer the damn phone?" 

Elias startles at the tone; he can't recall Jon ever speaking to him that way before, and apparently the man catches himself as well, because he clears his throat and starts anew. 

"I... suppose not much has changed. The light in Lukas' lighthouse went out around two months ago, now. We called you right away, but you didn't answer, so Tonner went down on her own." He pauses. "The lighthouse was empty." 

"No," Elias says, before he can stop himself, "No, that's not possible. I was there. He was fine. He was going to be _fine_." 

"Out of courtesy, I'll pretend I didn't hear that," Jon warns, "Look, I'm sorry, Elias. That's all there is to say." 

Elias blinks. "Well, is he dead?" he snaps without ceremony. 

A pause. 

"Tonner didn't think so," Jon says, "There were signs of... packing. She said there were clothes missing, no suitcase or toiletries either. Things... left in disarray." 

"Well, did he _walk_ all the way to town?" Elias growls, "That makes no sense."

"It would be a long walk, but it's not impossible," Jon admits, though he sounds doubtful as well, "And I can't imagine he packed a suitcase only to hurl himself into the sea." 

"Do you have any idea where he might be?" 

"That's what we were trying to call you about," Jon scolds, "I understand you were close." He clears his throat, suddenly uncomfortable. "Martin recalled he asked about you."

"He did?"

"I mean, it was a while ago, I don't really… remember." 

"I..." Elias considers his next lie, "I have no idea where he could've gone. Home, perhaps? Did you contact his family?"

"We did, but they haven't heard from him." How shocking. "Or they could be hiding him, of course," Jon's voice drops lower, "I suppose there is no clearer way to declare yourself a traitor than to leave your post." 

"Don't be ridiculous," Elias scoffs. 

"It's the law. A light going out is one thing, not necessarily his fault, but he abandoned it." He exhales. "A ship hit the rocks, Elias. A courser. Seven people drowned under that cliff." 

"Horribly tragic," he rolls his eyes, "Now, where is the investigation?" 

"I don't think you're privy to that kind of information at the moment," Jon sighs, "If you want to, you're welcome to rejoin the Office, and aid the Bureau with their efforts... but somehow, I have a feeling you won't." 

"The Bureau," he growls under his breath, "Fantastic."

"If you... see him..." Jon adds, and Elias cuts him off without thinking. 

"Yes, yes, it's my federal duty to report him to the authorities. I was an overseer, if you'll recall." 

"I don't think you'll have your usual flexibility in this case," Jon presses. 

"Right. Thank you for your time, Archivist." 

He throws down the phone and stands up to pace around the room, his hands on his hips. He must've worn out the carpet by the time he finally reminds himself to take a breath and reevaluate things with a clear mind. 

He's going to have to go up there, no question. Tonner's not an idiot, but she's no servant of the Eye, and her insight into perceived reality is practically worthless in any context. Did Peter leave something behind? Where is he headed?

Is it even something Elias should care about? It's not his job - it hasn't been in almost two years - and he's only really met Peter twice. Is his perception skewed? Has he gone insane somewhere along the way? Is he completely mistaken?

He quickly kicks the Spiral back under the table and closes his eyes to think. 

He has cared about people before. He tells himself that intently, time and time again, to remind himself that it is not the end of the world. Care has influenced him, yes, but never so much that he would alter his course in life; he is not built to devote himself to anything that isn't the Eye. Married to his work, as it were.

On the one hand, that means he should have no issue at all accepting this turn of events as ultimately favourable; no distractions, no more pesky momentary misery or aching chest. 

On the other, it only reminds him that Peter would've had the same thought. Wherever he is now - whatever he's doing - Elias has no doubt he still serves the Lonely. Eats it, breathes it, and lives within it. It reminds him that where his distance from people used to protect him from true attachment - their shock and horror at who and what he was, their constant asking too much of him, wanting too much of him - Peter understood it all instinctively. Peter demanded nothing until they reached a point where he could demand anything, and Elias would genuinely feel regret telling him 'no'.

But there is one other thing. The thing he hides in the back of his mind, considers with sparkling eyes and a hand over his mouth. 

The fact he showed Peter how to draw on the misery of others. 


	2. II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sO HOW ABOUT THAT 192???? god, i feel like i've been on crack for three days. you'll have to believe me when i say i've had 90% of this fic typed up for a couple weeks/months, because as the tags might imply, it delves into elias' relationship with rosie--and i think i actually came quite close to what has been revealed as canon (or at least my darling friend seemed to think so). i did do a few edit passes over this chapter, but naturally since it was written before 192, there is some deviation.  
> in less cheery news, this is one of those chapters were Things Go Badly for Rosie. so, if you're in the tag looking for fluff, maybe skip this. (tw for emotional abuse, elias being elias, cheating and alcohol abuse. also very light physical violence, i suppose)  
> i can't tell yall how excited i am to have the bastard back.  
> one more thing - this is a much shorter chapter than what i usually put out, and for that i apologize. i had to split it this way because there's a large time skip in the next one ;)

He does not, in the end, look into the disappearance any further.

He is shrivelled up inside with the anger and pain of his worthless sacrifice, and sometimes, privately, he bends over backwards swearing he'll never forgive him. But it's in those moments - the worst of them - that he feels the Lonely leeching off him. 

"My dear beholders," his voice is raspy and lacks its usual vigour, but he can do nothing to raise it, "The day is here. You all got what you wanted." 

He adjusts his position and ducks his head, squeezing his temples.

"I admit it, my heart is broken." 

The neck of the bottle clinks against the edge of the glass. He pours the last couple of drops down the side, missing, and they sink into the script on his desk. 

He groans and rubs his eyes. 

"This is demeaning," he adds, putting the bottle down. "Is anyone even listening? Hello?" 

The earpiece crackles and he sighs loudly. 

"Jonah, you're on air," Rosie reminds him. 

"Be quiet," he snaps, temper worsened by the drink, "Your boyfriend is cheating on you. Go... cry, or whatever it is you do when this happens." He hums, the words spilling out of him like a giant wave. "Because it happens every time, doesn't it?" He smooths his hand over the desk. "You've never held a single person's attention wholly." 

She makes a small sound, like a hiccup. "W... what?" 

"It's your sister, by the way." He hesitates. "One moment, is Charlotte your sister, or your friend? I always forget. To be honest, I don't pay much attention to you either." 

"That's it," she inhales sharply, "I'm taking you off." 

There's a buzz in his ear and he sees the faint glow from the light above his door die abruptly. 

After a moment, the door swings open, revealing Rosie - a figure of vengeance in a pencil skirt - standing there, in the dimly lit corridor. 

Elias puts down the microphone. 

"You interrupted my show," he says darkly. 

"You said something awful," she counters, but she is awkward, uncomfortable. She has never stood up to him like this. 

Does she care about him at all? He takes a good look. No. Not really. She cares about him only to the extent to which she cares about beggars on the street, a woman crying loudly on the train. Because her heart tells her to, in the moment. She will forget it tomorrow. 

What does that feel like? To have so much care to give it practically spills out of you? Was he like this, once, or has he always been this cold? Not that he minds. It's just so strange, to be reminded time and time again how little in common he has with... people. 

"Jonah, you need to stop this," she warns, her voice trembling as she stalks closer to pick up the empty bottle and glass. She stands there, like a newborn deer on her heels, tense and uncertain. "You know we're losing listeners." 

"I do know that," he breathes, twirling his revolving chair with a kick. He immediately regrets it when his head spins. "Oh, God." He grabs the desk with one hand, covers his mouth with the other. 

"Wait here," she says shakily, walking out of the room with the bottle and glass held in her hands. She must think he's too drunk to remember this tomorrow. 

He isn't. He can see her plain as day as she disappears around a corner and walks to the break room, watching from the eye logo on the open door. 

"Bitch," he mutters low under his breath, then bites his lips not to laugh at himself. He covers his eyes with his hand, chuckling. He is such a mean drunk.

Oh, she's coming back. Having disposed of the items, she is now wiping her face angrily as she lurks outside the door. She sniffs. 

"Why do you think you came to work for me?" Elias adds, raising his voice so she'll hear, and so she’ll flinch, "You saw a man who intimidated you, scared you, even, and you thought to yourself--" he throws a hand to the side in a dramatic gesture, as if spelling out the words in neon letters, "I simply can't wait to let him walk all over me." 

His voice is low, hissing. Acidic. 

Rosie enters, her face red and clouded. She grabs the back of his revolving chair with both hands, turns him around, and pushes him out of the studio with audible effort. 

"Oh, we're going on a trip," his head drops to his shoulder as he laughs. 

He realises, then, that he never showed her what he was talking about. She still doesn't believe him. He tries to look up at her, but they're going too fast; they're already in the break room. 

Rosie, with impressive strength for someone with roughly the constitution of a porcelain doll, heaves him up by the front of his suit jacket and dumps him onto the sticky leather sofa, panting. Her face is still red, now with effort, as she pushes him to lie down on his back. 

"What are you doing?" he asks, slightly alarmed now. He half-expects her to straddle him, but alas, he never had too high an opinion of the woman. And it's not too much of a shock when she slaps him instead. 

His cheek burns. She didn't do it with much skill, caught his nose too. "You'll pay for that," he growls, then settles in a bit more comfortably, "Tomorrow." 

She shivers all over, looming above him. "Tomorrow, you're getting my two weeks' notice." 

He smiles, relaxed, and rolls onto his side. 

"You have no idea what I can do to you in two weeks." 

The boyfriend had been an educated guess, when he first looked into him after that night he walked her home--but her father would be the next obvious one. 

Sure enough, it flashes through her thoughts as she's looking down at him. She's wondering if he's right - if there's something wrong with her, with the kind of men she seeks out. She knows nothing. About him, about men, about identity. About patterns. 

"Planning my suicide, are you?" he sighs. 

Her face goes frightfully pale now, he can see it even from this angle. He feels oddly vulnerable, with her standing above him like this, but he's too tired to sit up.

"Your lover was lucky he--he got away from you when he did," she whispers.

It's textbook, really, her desperation to grab at the one thing she learned about him, the one thing she has ever seen that matters. 

"Oh, Rosie," he says, "You're going to regret this." 

"I don't recognise you," she whispers, her voice trembling.

"But I'm such a good friend," he frowns, "Would you rather I didn't tell you? Let you live in your little bubble? Pretend--"

"I know he's cheating on me," she snaps, and immediately has to wipe her eyes. 

"Oh, you know," he mocks, "All right, you know, very well. But shall I show you?" 

He reaches out, brushes the side of her wrist with just the tips of his fingers, and Rosie's eyes widen in horror.

Tears well up in her eyes and spill almost immediately, her face going red as she lifts both hands to cover her nose and mouth. 

"No--"

"See? I wouldn't lie," he hisses, "Not about something this important." 

A vein rises in her forehead and she sobs, folding on herself, sharp noises tearing from her throat.

He pushes harder. 

She wails, covering her whole face, slowly backing away from the sofa where he still lies sprawled out in his half-drunk state. Maybe she says something, but he doesn't hear much. 

He probably passes out after that. He can only hope she's not run off to fetch a knife.

*

Rosie doesn't leave. He’s honestly a bit surprised, but whether it’s courage or cowardice--hard to say. 

He pretends he doesn't remember, and she pretends it never happened, but she looks at him with fear in her eyes now. Having left her boyfriend and stopped talking to her sister, she has nobody left, and although he knows she knows--she is more afraid of loneliness than she is of him. 

And he can't bring himself to part with her, either. 

He gets a grip on himself. He doesn't miss people. Doesn't write letters in his thoughts, doesn't mediate and bargain. He does none of it because it is beneath him, and he is perfectly content under the Eye. 

Despite all his self-assurances, the radio station shuts down within the month. He puts the books and the junk from his office in a cardboard box, throws what remains away, and has Rosie carry his things to his car. 

He places the box in the back seat, slams the door just a touch too loud. 

"Well, as fun as this has been…" he begins. It's a grey, windy day, like the one before it and the one that will come tomorrow. He can feel the cold stinging his ears. "I think it's about time I returned to the more mundane part of Administration.”

Rosie's face is impassive. "Am I coming with you?"

He runs a hand through his hair. "Of course, Rosie." He smiles at her. "Of course." 

She doesn't look happy at all.

"And you will call me Elias," he adds, taking a deeper breath, "Nothing else. Can you manage that?"

Rosie rubs her elbow, eyes finally dropping. 

"Will do. If that's what you want." 

"It is." 

He claps his hands and straightens up. 

"Elias," she stops him, "Are you going back to your old job in the Capital? Because, if so, that's almost two hours of commute. I was wondering--" 

He hums.

"No, no. Don’t worry about that. I was thinking… something a little closer." 

*

The workplace he joins - not really applies to; he walks in, gives his name, and is told where his office is - is a grim echo of the stations he's held before the radio show. 

It's a trade and customs outpost, located in a small grey building near Lymington's decently sized port, close enough that the wind smells like fish and he has to close the windows. 

It's not a big place by any means. It's really just him, Rosie, a few men he forgot almost immediately, and one woman he didn't - an officer assigned to help with investigations, by the name of Hussain. 

She's quiet and to-the-point. Apparently, they eat the same lunch every day here, which she informs him of by placing a newspaper-wrapped monstrosity on his desk. 

He looks at it, then at her. 

"Is this some sort of joke?" 

"Thought you were from the Capital," she says. 

"I am not, in fact." 

"But you did work there, right?"

"Yes." 

She shrugs. "The stuff up there doesn't live up to local. Try it." 

He makes a face and dramatically attempts to pick it up. 

"You've never eaten fish and chips before?" Hussain gives him a blank, slightly tired look. 

"No, I have, theoretically," he sighs, holding it in both hands like a sandwich, "In... restaurants." 

"Fancy." She gives him another indecipherable look before stepping away. "Eat up. I'm supposed to brief you." 

"Yes, er, thank you. I'll eat later." He raises an eyebrow, putting the newspaper down on the side of his desk.

"Fine."

She sighs deeply. 

"I should probably tell you now, this isn't actually just a desk job," she admits, patting the piece of furniture in question, "You're a consultant, and you'll be called to... maintain a presence, as you deem necessary." 

His eyebrows slowly climb up his forehead. 

"Don't give me that look," she sighs, "It's a port city, and there's crime. An all-seeing agent of the Eye might come in handy." 

"Not if I advertise my status," he says, keeping his voice low. 

"No, but you can make use of it. That's all we ask for." She sighs again. "Don't tell me you didn't look where you weren't technically supposed to in your previous jobs." 

True enough. 

He thinks about it. Consultant.  _ E. Bouchard, CNST.  _

Hussain crosses her arms on her chest, getting his attention again. She glances around his office, up and down his suit; her eyes linger on the rings on his hand. He cocks an eyebrow.

"So, look,” she says, “I can tell this isn’t what you had in mind. I'm not the boss, but I've worked here the longest out of the current team, so let me give you the rundown. We're basically just a subdivision of Revenue. We collect trade reports coming in from outside the city, then file and catalogue them.” She clicks her tongue. “That mostly means ship manifests. The guys next door do taxes. Or they did, last I checked." She squints. "It's not my area. _ I _ deal with complaints and settling any... confusion before it goes to court."

"Is that your official title?" he asks, amused. 

"No," Hussain scowls, "But my official title is just as vague as everything else around here. No point using it.”

"A strange stance for someone technically with the Bureau," he notes, "Not very favourable under the Watcher." 

"Yeah, well, you're not exactly a traditional clerk yourself," she gently taps the space just under her eye, "I've heard the rumours about you. The shit you get away with every forty years or so." 

"Rumours, as you said. I'm just a humble employee," he smiles, steepling his fingers, "A humble, semi-omniscient employee, who you just asked to utilize his rare and unique gift for your benefit." 

She does not smile back. 

"What about Rosie?" he changes the topic swiftly, "I haven't seen her around."

"She's gonna be working the front desk for now, but I guess she's still your assistant, so..." she exhales. "You could dump your paperwork on her. If you want.” 

Elias waits for her to say it. She does. 

“You’re kind of a package deal, aren’t you?” she tilts her head, “You and her.” 

“Something like that.” 

Hussain scowls.

“She doesn’t talk much.” 

He nods. “Not anymore.”

The silence settles in more heavily, now. He clears his throat. 

"I have to say, I have held enough positions in the past years to admit our system does get confusing," he says finally, “I can’t imagine trying to keep up with it without the luxury of being able to pick and choose.” 

"It's how it's done," she almost cuts him off, "Nothing to be done about it. You know the Board switches it all up every couple of years anyway."

"I swear, the Spiral has a foot in the door," he shakes his head. 

That actually makes her laugh.

"You know, you're probably right." 

She leaves him to his own devices after that. As it turns out, the fish isn't half bad. 

He works in relative peace for a while. It's not a glamorous job, and much less sating than gathering intimate confessions from willing callers, but it's something. Hussain was right - he's summoned multiple times, though more to investigate than consult. Any imbalance, disagreement, or simple mistake has to be noted and explained. If the matter is at all criminal in nature, he calls Hussain to take over, and she moves the case along less… pleasantly. He talks to captains, small business owners, regular people. 

He rebuilds himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as i said, not really feeling how short this chapter is. i plan to merge it with the first chapter someday. please let me know what you think.   
> thank you for reading <3

**Author's Note:**

> as always, i love to hear your thoughts. <3 how do you feel about the POV change? i thought it was necessary.


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